Variations on a Theme: Angela Petrelli
by hauntedd
Summary: Four moments in Angela's life through the eyes of Linderman, Peter, Claire and Nathan.


**Title:** Variations on a Theme: Angela Petrelli  
**Rating: **T  
**Characters: **Angela Petrelli, Daniel Linderman, Peter Petrelli, Claire Bennet, Nathan Petrelli  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own Heroes or anything related to it. Some of the dialogue comes from 1.1; 1.19; 1.23  
**Summary:** Four moments in Angela Petrelli's life through the eyes of four different people.

* * *

She was stunning, like Jackie Kennedy or Elizabeth Taylor. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulder, fading into the simple black wool of her coat as she guided her young son down the halls of JFK airport. It was strange, seeing her again, as lovely as he'd remembered, but not nearly as scared as she had been, three years ago. 

They'd gathered in midtown, at Kirby Plaza near that awful looking statue that was a terrible experiment in art deco and modernist sculpture. All twelve of them, mostly Americans, desperate for answers – and then one, Ken, which at the time he thought was short for Kenneth, but now knew was short for Kensei, had spoken.

He claimed they were special – that they had a purpose to right the wrongs of humanity, begin a new age. Ten of them had eagerly agreed, listening with rapt attention as he espoused on topics like evolution, Charles Darwin, destiny, fate, love, war, their role in creating a new society.

Angela had been the lone exception. She'd been polite enough, sat quietly through that meeting before packing her bags and leaving without a word, taking her son with her.

Dallas, no _Arthur_ he scolded himself, confided in him once, over too much scotch, a few months after she'd left. Angela, he said, still loved him, she just didn't believe Kensei's goals were genuine. Arthur had blamed it on her ability -- that she was being rebellious in an attempt to fight the future that her dreams mapped out for her. Angela was her own woman, and would not submit willingly to _destiny_, however, Arthur believed that in time, she'd come home to him.

He hadn't the heart to tell him how unlikely that was, even after half a bottle of black label.

But just like he'd been right about Au Co – Arthur Petrelli was right about his wife.

If he didn't know better, he would have assumed that Arthur was the one with precognition in the Petrelli household.

"Vous êtes revenu," he greeted in perfect French. She may have left her husband, her life in New York, to live in Paris, but she was not the only one who had changed since 1972. He'd moved west to Las Vegas, making a name for himself in the gambling business – guaranteeing that their mission would never go unfunded.

"Yes, Yes, Daniel I've come back. Apparently, I can't rid myself of you all as easily as I'd like," Angela snapped, a wry grin on her face. Dallas called her a spitfire; despite the hopeful tone of that letter of her's he'd read while traveling down the Mekong Delta. At the time he didn't get what he had been trying to say – but staring at her now, he knew.

She was a woman not to be messed with.

"I see Paris has treated you well," he drawled, unsure what to say to her. She was exquisite, but she was not his – he was just glad she'd returned, for Arthur's sake.

"Did _he_ send you? Is this his pathetic attempt to say that our marriage is over?" Angela snapped, annoyed with his pleasantries as she picked at the fabric of her white gloves, a nervous habit that betrayed her cool exterior.

"My dear, Arthur has been lost without you, he's just been busy today in court," Linderman clipped in the accented English he'd adopted since coming into wealth, thanks in part to Robert, the alchemist's, abilities.

"Fine, then," Angela sighed, extending a gloved hand to pick up her bag, motioning for her son, Nathan, to follow.

Her demeanor was almost regal, arguably a combination of her family's wealth and her time at Smith, something he'd noticed from the moment he first laid eyes upon her in New York, a few months after he and Arthur had left the Army. But she looked different now, a bit undone, sadder, definitely, and although he knew Arthur would choose to ignore it, Daniel Linderman knew that Angela Petrelli was not the same woman she'd been before Paris.

"Angela, if I may ask, why did you return?" he asked, running a hand through his crop of blond hair as he walked beside her, the young boy standing on the other side.

"Not that it's any of your business, Daniel, but I've finally realized my role to play in all of this," Angela snapped as she dropped her luggage onto the sidewalk and stared at him, her lips thinning to a frown, a resigned look in her eye.

He didn't say another word, he didn't have to, Angela Petrelli had resigned herself to the future that haunted her dreams -- and he found it _fascinating_.

-------------------

It's not every day you get a phone call that your mother has been _arrested_. For shoplifting. It is the kind of crime you do when you're fifteen and high on teenage rebellion – not something you do when you're in your mid-sixties and own a mansion on the Upper East Side.

Only his mother – and he loved her for it.

Nathan, however, wasn't happy. He had that stupid election to worry about and couldn't deal with his dreams about flying, let alone a mother who was now the living embodiment of a Jane's Addiction song.

The two of them entered the holding cell, Nathan was ranting and raving as she tried to downplay what had gone on, a playful twinkle in her eye revealing that she enjoyed how upset she could make her older son -- like she was testing him.

"What could you possibly have needed so badly that you had to steal it?" Nathan boomed, pacing back and forth in front of them.

"Never mind, I don't want to know," he added, before their mother could get a word in. She was prone to this kind of rebellion -- she always had been, but Nathan wasn't as aware of it before their father passed away in April.

"Socks," she smirked, raising her head to stare her son in the face, daring him to challenge her, a move that went unnoticed as Nathan laid into her about their father's death and her random acts of valor.

He simply took her hand, gently stroking it. It was obvious to Peter that it was a cry for help -- why couldn't Nathan understand that?

And, come on, socks? It was at least amusing.

"You know what, get out of here, go worry about your meetings, I'll handle this," he said finally, annoyed with Nathan's obsession with the New York media and his stupid election. He understood it, he did, the compulsion to fix the family name, but not at the expense of losing himself.

"Yeah, good, gotta make sure this stays buried. Thanks a lot, Ma," Nathan barked as he stormed off, determined to keep Angela Petrelli's latest feat out of the press.

"Mmhmm," she'd nodded, as she waved Nathan goodbye, _clearly_ not remorseful for the heartburn she'd caused him.

Only their mother would find joy in disrupting her sons' lives. She was her own woman -- and ever since his father died, she made sure both he and Nathan knew it.

"What were you thinking?"

"I just wanted to feel alive again," she smiled as his dark eyes bore into hers, a sad smile playing on her face as she pressed her forehead against his own. It was these moments he craved -- his father had determined early on that he had no use for him -- and his mother's love made him feel whole.

Because while Angela Petrelli was pushy, brazen and closed off at times, she was also the woman who'd bandaged him up and baked cookies while Nathan and his father played army together in the living room.

Even with stolen socks on her feet, she was still his mother, and he loved her.

--------------------------

Claire frowned as she paced around the room they'd put her in. It was nice enough -- yellow walls, a lit fireplace, both of which, she was certain, were there to be inviting. However, she couldn't quiet the unease she felt ever since she'd stumbled across the Haitian and her grandmother when she was looking for Peter.

Maybe if she'd taken French instead of Spanish she'd feel a little bit better -- the two of them had spoken in hushed tones the entire ride over to the house, no, mansion, all in French.

She could make out an occasional vous or oui -- you and yes, but other than that, she was out of the loop.

God, why did she have to be a freak? All she wanted was a normal life -- not to be holed up in a guest room in some stupid New York mansion. Of course, she could jump out a window and escape -- but to where?

She had nowhere else to go -- and at least they weren't calling her _Vivian_. Ick.

Pursing her lips, she fingered a picture of Peter and some other man. She'd seen his picture on a few signs and happened to notice the last name -- Petrelli -- the same as Peter's. At the time she'd thought it was a coincidence, now she knew better.

The other man, Nathan, was her father. The asshole who offered her mother a check and didn't want to see her.

The man who would always disappoint her.

Why did she even want to meet him? And why had she felt happy that she had a little bit of his stubbornness in her?

This totally sucked. And her grandmother was creepy.

"My two boys actually getting along -- Nathan's wedding -- he has two boys of his own now. And that handsome man is Peter, but you've already met him now, haven't you?"

Speaking of her grandmother, she sighed, willing herself not to cry at the revelation that Nathan had other children -- she really was the afterthought here.

"He saved my life -- forgot to mention that we were related," she sniffled, realizing that for a moment, she'd thought her uncle was cute.

"Oh, he didn't know. He didn't even know that you existed," Angela replied, her face softening slightly as she noticed Claire's watery gaze.

"But you did?"

"Since you were a baby, Nathan's folly in Texas," her grandmother sighed, brushing a strand of her dark hair off her face. Despite the condescending description of how she'd come to exist, there was no animosity, just acceptance.

God, she was _so_ weird.

"And you kept me a secret?"

Translation: you expect me to be okay with this?

"I cared about you a great deal, perhaps not in the traditional sense -- oatmeal cookies and school plays, but I did what I could. My husband and I made arrangements for you," she explained and Claire frowned. She'd never had a grandmother before, they'd both died before she was born -- and while a part of her was happy that her grandmother cared, she'd rather have oatmeal cookies.

But Claire guessed that she'd probably order them instead of bake them herself.

They continued talking, sparring, really, and she was beginning to realize that stubbornness wasn't something she'd inherited from her father alone.

"Be sensible!" Her grandmother snapped finally, rolling her eyes in annoyance that Claire refused to relent so easily.

"By shipping me off to Paris?"

Sensible would be like, letting her stay in New York. Not a freaking flight to Europe for some elite boarding school. Not to mention -- she _didn't_ speak French. She was from Odessa, they still called fries "freedom fries" in her cafeteria -- President Bush spent a year living in her town! Her friends would laugh at her.

"For now, yes. I'll be taking you there myself. You'll have the chance to grow up into someone who can make her own choices. And then if you choose to come back and join this madness like I once did, at least I will have given you the option."

No way.

"So you're like me?" She questioned, her hopeful tone evident as she stared up at the older woman, praying that she had the answers she desperately wanted.

"I regret a lot of the choices I've made in my life. You're getting the benefit of my experience."

"Whether I want it or not," Claire huffed, trying not to sound curious what that experience was. A part of her really did want to go to Paris with her grandmother -- she'd never been abroad and at least her grandmother seemed to care about her. It was something that couldn't be said for her freaking father.

Sure, her grandmother said he didn't know about her, but she knew it wasn't true. Nathan knew, all right, he freaking paid her biological mom off and didn't want to see her when her mom asked! There may never be cookies or school plays, but maybe they could eat crepes sitting around the Eiffel Tower?

"You get that mouth from me," her grandmother replied with a smirk before exiting the room. Maybe Paris wouldn't be so bad after all. Yeah, she was creepy and kind of a bitch, but she knew _things_ -- maybe it would help her feel normal -- or at least not as freakish.

All Claire knew was her mouth wasn't the only thing she'd gotten from Angela Petrelli.

---------------------------------------

Angela Petrelli was a terrible woman to shop for -- she had an innate ability to know exactly what she was getting for any occasion long before the event took place. When he was younger, before he'd jettisoned out of the car and into the air six months ago, he'd thought she just had a sixth sense about these things. Now, he wondered if it wasn't something genetic. It was a stupid question, really, but it kept his mind off of what was about to happen to Peter and the fact that he had again failed his own daughter.

His mother's obsession with his congressional race, Linderman's preaching about a better future, a catalyst for change, that he would be the _one they need_.

He didn't even want it.

All this time it'd been her pushing him. It was that stupid call from Rahm Emmanuel, who was heading up the DCCC and the prodding from Heidi and his parents that did it. _You're a veteran -- an upstanding citizen. You can do this -- restore your family's reputation_.

Those fucking paintings and Linderman had kept him going -- knowing that he could be a _leader_. His mother talked about destiny as a way of making him work for her approval, her love, which she gave to Peter freely but withheld from him. She let Peter be whoever he wanted to be -- but he was always a disappointment -- and if those looks she was giving Claire were any indication, so was his daughter.

"Nothing is inevitable, the future is not written in stone," Claire snapped, glaring at the two of them and he scowled as her words resonated. If it weren't for the paintings and the firsthand knowledge that they were the truth he would agree with her.

His mother, however, would not.

"I'm afraid this one is," Nathan sighed, hating the man he'd become.

"If this is so inevitable, why has she been trying to keep us **apart** all these years?" Claire questioned, raising an eyebrow as she stood with arms akimbo, teenage bravado on display.

What the hell was Claire talking about? His mother was cold at times, yes, but she'd never intentionally keep him from his daughter -- it'd just been for the election. She was the one raving about how wonderful it was to finally have a girl around to dote on, and how she hoped to take her to the fashion houses in Paris.

"There are things that you simply are not mature enough to understand yet," his mother replied coolly and he felt his resolve break as the disillusionment set in. If it weren't for his need to protect his daughter, ability to heal or not, from what was coming, he'd take her out of there right now.

What else was his mother lying about?

"Claire I know that it is hard for you to trust me right now but this is all going to make sense very soon," Nathan sighed, not believing his own words. "I promise."

"We are offering you everything you've ever wanted Claire. A place to belong, a family," his mother stated and he forced back the urge to roll his eyes. Only his mother would be able to offer a family up as a reason for staying when they were sentencing Claire's uncle, his brother, and her son to a fate worse than death.

But a part of him hoped that whatever she was saying resonated -- he did **not** want Claire out in Kirby Plaza. Not because he wanted to prevent her from helping Peter -- but because Sylar was there. He'd killed her in one timeline, who was to say he wouldn't kill her in this one.

"I already have a family," Claire spat as she embraced him, and he willed himself not to be hurt by her words. As much as she believed he was evil, he truly did care for her -- it'd killed him to say no when Meredith asked if he wanted her to call. She was his _daughter_ dammit -- and he'd lost so much time with her already.

The next few moments went by in slow motion, she ran from him, jumped through the window and onto the ground, and his heart ripped from his chest as the echo of every fractured bone resonated in the small room.

He didn't think he breathed again until she showed some signs of life, picked herself up off the pavement and ran.

A part of him couldn't be prouder -- she was an inspiration, really. And she was his _daughter_. He'd like to pretend that she got many of her traits from him, but knew he'd inherited most of her personality from her grandmother. They both were sassy, daring, determined, and yet Claire was optimistic, while Angela was resigned.

He had to go after her -- she couldn't die now.

"I know what you're thinking Nathan, let her go, you understand?" his mother demanded as she stood next to him, shaken from what she'd seen. It was one thing to know that Claire could regenerate -- it was quite another to see it.

Scowling, he glanced at his mother for a moment. Somehow he knew that wasn't the reason why she was so shaken up.

Peter had faith in Nathan's ability to do the right thing -- it was why he needed to go to them, prevent a future his mother had worked towards, stop the daughter he'd let his mother talk him in to ignoring from sacrificing her innocence, or even worse, herself, to end something she hadn't started.

"Sorry, I can't do that Ma," Nathan sighed before jettisoning off into the night. He was going to be a goddamn hero -- .07 was too much for him to lose just to carry out someone else's interpretation of fate and destiny.

And Angela Petrelli probably knew that, long before he did.


End file.
